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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27551323">A Muggle Cliché</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR'>CescaLR</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fic Ideas/Prompts/Tumblr Stuffs/One-shots [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops &amp; Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Bisexual Ron Weasley, Café Employee Harry Potter, Café Employee Ron Weasley, Coffee, M/M, POV Ron Weasley, Past Lavender Brown/Ron Weasley, Slash, Squib Harry Potter, Tags Are Hard, also, but anyway:, but i think i've got everything, but it's like one sentence so it doesn't matter anyway, eh you'll see, except not really?? but he's like dead so, just FYI, may i repeat: this is a Coffee Shop AU with a Twist!, weirdest assortment of individuals I could have used for this</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:13:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,300</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27551323</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter. The squib son of James and Lily Potter. The nephew of Sirius Black. </p><p>Ron is never going to hear the end of this from the twins, he realises, with great despair. In his defence, Harry Potter should be dead. </p><p>Aka: Coffee Shop AU, with my customary twist on the trope. Buckle in, boys.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Potter/Ron Weasley, Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fic Ideas/Prompts/Tumblr Stuffs/One-shots [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/897246</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>200</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Muggle Cliché</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/livingincolors/gifts">livingincolors</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>&gt;-&gt;<br/>me: not great at romance, took 59,000 words the last time I wrote harron to get to their First Kiss Moment and it was like, the least romantic thing ever lmao<br/>also me: this fic<br/>additonally me: why does coffee shop AUs from my damned brain always mean like 10k-ish fanfictions what is going on up there do I crave abnormal normality in my romance fiction<br/>finally me: it must be said: Costa is superior to Starbucks in all ways and no, I do not take criticism on the matter, not that this is relevant to the fic, coffee shop AUs just make me want coffee </p><p>I hope you like it???? You know who you are, I hope you like it I really do... fingers crossed eh</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"What's your order?"</p><p>"One Americano, medium to-go, black, three sugars. One espresso, to-go, shot of caramel? Uh..." He inspects the piece of paper in his grasp. </p><p>"Uhm - I'll just - gi' me the list?" Ron gestures, and the guy hands over the note, looking vaguely awkward in an oversized hoodie, flannel, worn old jeans and gardener's boots, a ballcap shoved snugly onto his head, red colour faded, unruly hair flattened against his forehead, wire-frame round eyeglasses taped together and balanced precariously on the nose, a clear scratch or five in the lenses. </p><p>Less awkward, Ron considers, more... worse for wear. Blimey, even Charlie's clothes looked in better repair. And it was <em>Charlie. </em><strong>Works with </strong><em><strong>dragons</strong> </em>Charlie. </p><p>You might have a vague sense of curiosity. <em>Why is a wizard working in a muggle coffee shop? </em>Well, Ron took Muggle Studies for his second elective, alongside Care of Magical Creatures, because Seamus and Dean were from the muggle world, and Ron didn't want to seem all ignorant and shite about that sort of thing. Plus, Neville took it, too, and it was a decent idea to have some subjects in common with your mates, so you could help each other out. </p><p>This was Ron's 'assignment', post sixth-year. Spend the summer 'experiencing the muggle world'. Which meant he needed muggle money, and Ron wasn't about to beg off his parents, now he's of-age in the magical world's eyes. Seventeen years old, and hell if that wasn't a weird feeling. </p><p>Ron's an adult, in the eyes of the law, even if it feels like just yesterday he stepped onto that bloody train for the first time, a green little firstie, fresh out of Ottery, eleven years of nothing but farming and family. </p><p>It had been, to say the least, a bit overwhelming. But he'd dealt with it. Chatted with Seamus and Dean, hung out with Neville as the 'defaults' of their year, argued a shit-tonne with Hermione Jean Granger. Got asked by Lavender Brown to the Yule Ball, which was a bloody embarrassing affair but it hadn't stopped her from snogging him senseless in fifth-year, after he won that Quidditch Match. Nice girl, Lavender. Ron figures his first relationship wasn't a bad one. Dean's was with Ginny, Ron's sister, and <em>that </em>had gone much worse, at least in how it ended. Still. They figured a lot out, in the last two years, him and Lavender, and it turns out she's more into Parvati than she'd ever be into Ron. </p><p>Ron fills in the guy's order on auto-pilot. There's a car waiting outside; he spots two large men, one clearly the parent of the other, and the other around his and the guy's age. The woman, presumably the mother of the large blonde (around-)seventeen year-old, was also blonde, with a long neck and a judging look in her blue eyes. </p><p>Unpleasant lot, he figures. upper class, by the look of 'em. Schmoosing socialites. Muggle Malfoys. Other comparisons and labels Ron could rattle off all afternoon, if you'd listen.</p><p>"Here y' go," He says, handing over the three drinks. </p><p>"Thanks," The guy grimaces at him, eyes avoiding his face. "Twenty," Ron tells him, for the total. The guy's grimace deepens. Yeah, Ron agrees; it's a bit overpriced for three drinks. But it's not exactly your average coffee shop, and it's not a chain like his brothers' store or Café Nero. Just a nice enough coffee shop with decent ingredients in a richer neighbourhood that ups the cost so the customers don't think it's too 'low brow' for them to bother with. </p><p>Gives Ron a decent pay check, for a service industry job, at least. </p><p>The guy pays for the drinks, and leaves.</p><p>Ron has a feeling this won't be the last time he sees him.</p>
<hr/><p>Four days later, on the first Friday of July, the guy shows up again. He looks uncomfortable. Ron remembers the <em>now hiring! </em>sign outside.</p><p>"You here for the job?" Ron asks, stalling in the seating area, a tray of used mugs and saucers and small plates and knives and forks and spoons balanced on his left hand and forearm. </p><p>"Yeah," The guy says. "That'd be the case."</p><p>"Come on then," Ron says. He takes the guy into the back, hands him over to the manager, and then wanders into the kitchen to wash up the cutlery and other shite. </p>
<hr/><p>Monday, Ron apparates out back of the store, in the corner that used to be some kind of alley before they blocked it off with a brick wall. It's usefully hidden away, and the owner of the establishment, a muggleborn who married a muggle from their stint at uni, gave Ron blanket permission to come to work this way, so long as he arrives early enough that nobody notices. </p><p>Ron walks inside, throws on his apron, pulls on the gloves, and proceeds to retrieve the cloth and spray so he can wipe down the tables, before the Café opens. He sees The Guy outside before he can start, so Ron shrugs to himself and lets him inside. </p><p>"Hey," Ron says. "You got a shift now?"</p><p>"Uh, yeah," The Guy says, then gestures behind himself at the car loitering on the curb. "And they want coffee," He half-drawls, tone laced with discomfort and mild aggravation. Aggravation, Ron thinks, whittled down by years of exposure to the three probable arseholes sat pretty in the car on the curb.</p><p>"Not open for a good fifteen minutes," Ron says. "They'll have to wait," He shrugs. </p><p>The Guy grimaces, reflexively. "Oh, bet they'll love that," He says, and wanders over to the car. Ron walks back inside, and starts cleaning the tables. </p><p>a minute passes, which Ron thinks is perhaps a little longer than should really be needed to say what they need to hear, but Ron <em>also </em>thinks those people seem the type to need a little longer of an explanation, because they don't seem the type to accept something they don't want to hear.</p><p>This assumption is confirmed by the sounds of raised voices, followed almost immediately by shouting, then a prolonged moment of silence, then an explosive sigh, the sound of someone kicking one of the metal chairs outside the Cafe, and then The Guy barges inside, clearly in a very unpleasant mood. </p><p>The car, Ron hears, pulls away from the curb with a screeching of tires. It's gone pretty quick after that, but The Guy doesn't relax - or even move to get his apron - until another five minutes have passed by.</p><p>He's dressed much differently today, Ron notes. Green eyes still squinting slightly from behind broken, taped-together glasses, but no faded red ballcap or scruffy attire. He half looks like he's dressed for muggle high school - black trousers, white shirt, respectable shoes. It even half fits him - but Ron, ever experienced with such things, can see the evidence of prolonged usage; too tight around the shoulders, too short on the arms, missing a button at the top and two from the bottom, plus it's too long for him, and off-coloured, like someone once tried to dye it a grey colour then decided that was a bad idea and bleached it back to white, damaging the fabric. There's a tear on one of the elbows, sewn back together with inexperienced precision and <em>black </em>cotton.</p><p>The cap has been replaced, today, with a black sports headband, hiding his forehead, and itself hidden amongst the mop of unkempt hair. </p><p>"What's your name?" Ron asks. </p><p>The Guy frowns at him, taps his nametag, and says, "Harry."</p><p>"Ron," Ron offers. Harry quirks his lips up, slightly, not exactly a friendly gesture, but sort of an attempt at one. "Right," Harry says, and then grimaces. He busies himself with the expresso machine. </p><p>"Did Jack show you how to use that?" Ron asks. Jack often forgot to show new employees how to actually do the job. Ron would know, because Jack forgot to show him.</p><p>"I know," Harry says, and he does. "Got one at the house," He mutters, tone vaguely - some kind of unpleasant, but Ron doesn't know him well enough to tell. </p><p>"Alright then," Ron says, wondering why the three would drag him out here to get them coffee if they have perfectly good machines at 'the house'. Not <em>home, </em>Ron didn't miss that. He's gotten better at paying attention, after what happened in Ginny's first year, and his wand got stolen at the Quidditch Cup by that nut-job Barty Crouch Junior.</p><p>Ron's on his third wand, annoyingly enough. And it's annoying mostly because it makes him feel a mixture of useless and guilty, but - whatever. It's whatever.</p><p>"Yeah," Harry mutters. Ron goes back to cleaning. </p>
<hr/><p>They don't talk, much, at first. </p><p>They're just co-workers, after all, and besides, Harry Last-Name-Not-Given isn't really one for conversation. Though, Ron has gleaned little things from him, by the way he acts.</p><p>"Caramel latte with extra sugar," Sneers a greying brunette, her stoic-faced salt-and-pepper husband with a handlebar moustache looming over her shoulder. </p><p>Harry smiles, charmingly, and nods. "Coming right up," He says, and turns, expression dropping, eyes rolling in Ron's direction like <em>'fucking snobs, right?'</em></p><p>He's a good actor and a better liar, and he's pretty decent at dealing with people's bullshit, which makes Harry great for retail, now, doesn't it? Except for a couple times. </p><p>Some guy comes in, one morning, beady-eyed and rat-faced, and upon seeing Harry he gets this <em>look </em>in his eyes, a vicious smile taking over his features. He sidles on up to the counter, and Harry waits, face a carefully blank customer-service-sucks sort of expression. </p><p>"Black coffee." The guy says. Ron looks at him, and then pointedly at the menu. That is <em>not </em>how you order this sort of thing.</p><p>"Polkiss," Harry sighs, "Does it pain you so much to ask me for help that you've forgotten how to order coffee, or is the writing on the black-board too complicated for you to understand?"</p><p>Ron blinks. </p><p>Polkiss scowls. "Black. Coffee." He glares at Harry. "Freak."</p><p>"Innovative," Harry says, rolling his head as if to deal with a crick in his neck. "Have you seriously not come up with better material since we were seven?"</p><p>Polkiss sneers at Harry. </p><p>"What do you want?" Harry snaps, gesturing to the menu. "Americano?"</p><p>"Yeah," Polkiss bites out. "Black. Coffee."</p><p>"Don't wear it out," Harry mutters, rolling his eyes. Polkiss moves as if to grab Harry by the front of his apron, which Ron catches in his peripheral vision, but before either Polkiss can do something stupid or Ron can lunge for him too, which would probably end up in all three of them getting concussions with the kind of luck Ron's had over the years, Harry has already neatly dodged out of the way, a mug waiting patiently below the dispenser for the coffee. </p><p>Ron sidles up to the counter. He's glad there aren't any other customers in here right now.</p><p>"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," He says, calmly. </p><p>"I've not done anything," Polkiss says, indignant.</p><p>"You were about to attack Harry, so, beg to differ," Ron says. "Get out of here, dick'ead."</p><p>Polkiss folds his arms. Harry slides a basic to-go cup of black coffee across the counter, which Ron catches, and then shoves towards Polkiss, the liquid spilling slightly over the edge. </p><p>"After you pay up," Ron amends. </p><p>"Nah, think I'll just take it," Polkiss sneers.</p><p>"Hiss," Harry says, deadpan, and Polkiss pales drastically for no real discernible reason. But then, Harry saying 'hiss' - not hissing, just saying 'hiss' very blandly, and also not really loudly either, like you'd say 'table' or 'grass' - had no discernible reason, either. </p><p>"Right whatever," And Polkiss scrambles in his back pocket for a note which he slaps on the counter before fleeing the premises. </p><p>Ron frowns at his retreating back.</p><p>"He's got a real big fear of snakes," Harry says, flippantly, and Ron glances back at him. His co-worker has a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, his bright, vivid, pale green eyes (Ron remembers, from fourth year, a colour of a spell just like it) holding within them a dangerous gleam. </p><p>This is all he says on the matter, and Harry, for the rest of his shift, remains very tight-lipped, responding only to customers, a practiced smile resting on his features. </p><p>It makes Ron more uncomfortable now, for some reason. How fake it all is. </p>
<hr/><p>Harry, Ron figures out, is not made up of dangerous eyes and performative smiles. </p><p>Ron is on his way to work, walking the muggle route from the bus stop having taken the Knight Bus from Ottery, today, as part of his whole 'learning to combine living in the muggle world and the magical society' thing for Muggle Studies. It's a good idea, to take it to NEWT level, partly just to... keep his options open. Or so McGonagall said. </p><p>Ron still not really sure what he wants to do in life. Not exactly. Vague ideas relating to quidditch, but... well. He's got a year to figure it out. Unlike Percy and Charlie and Bill and Fred and George and Ginny - Ron's just not got a real, clear, set goal in life. He just... wants to be, at least, as notable as his family. At <em>least. </em>So he's not that forgotten Weasley kid, sixth son stood overshadowed in the background by everyone else in the family, including (and perhaps especially) his year-younger little sister. </p><p>It's a bit of a sad thing, and a pretty lame thing to say - but sometimes Ron just feels like he was a stepping stone on the path to realising the goal of getting one Ginevera Molly Weasley into the world. The penultimate Weasley. </p><p>Ron grimaces into the middle distance, before shaking himself and turning in the direction of the Café. It's a few streets away, on the edge of the shopping district. This particular bus stop appears to be in a slightly worse-off area of town, which is as distinct from what Ron's used to in Ottery as everything has been, here in London. </p><p>Ron hears fighting. It's not exactly a surprise, but it's not exactly a usual occurrence, either, and Ron's curiousity takes a hold, for the moment. His walking speed slows, coming to a halt at the entrance to an alleyway. </p><p>"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" </p><p>Ah, fuck. Ron recognises that voice. He turns the corner, and he spies Harry, standing defiantly in front of three guys their age. Polkiss, from the shop, and two others he doesn't recognise. </p><p>"Can't have the neighbourhood thinkin' we've all gone as soft as <em>Duddykins, </em>Freak," One spits out. </p><p>"Yeah, and I wonder how he'd react if he heard you were still up to this shite," Harry retorts, equal venom in the tone of his voice. "Heavyweight boxing champion against, what, three skinny fucking sticks with no training and a can-do attitude?" Harry laughs at them. "You're <em>cowards, </em>fuckin' lot of you."</p><p>Shortest snarls at Harry, and lunges; Harry dodges, gets his leg in the way and the guy trips, face-plants onto the floor. "Gotta do better than that, Davey," Harry taunts, backing up. He shoves his hand into his back pocket, and Ron can't see his face, but he imagines his bright eyes darting warily about, between the two taller (but, indeed, skinnier) guys with downright <em>murderous </em>expressions on their faces. </p><p>"What you got there, Henry?" One says. Harry bristles at Henry more than he does at Freak, which Ron thinks is probably telling of something or another. </p><p>"Oh, nothing," Harry says, casually. "D'you steal that kitchen knife from your mum's cutlery drawer, Joshua?" </p><p>"J.D." Joshua snarls, "Well if you call me Henry, Joshie, I'll call you whatever too," Harry bites back. "Hey, kid, get out of here," Harry says.</p><p>"Oh, no you don't," One snarls, and Harry says, "Get the <em>fuck </em>away from him," Very dangerously, and there's the sounds of a scuffle and a young, thirteen-year-old-ish boy sprints out of the alleyway. Ron catches the guy that tries to chase after round the middle, tackling him to the floor, and Ron's been in enough fights with people of all sizes (thanks for nothing, Malfoy and co, though at least, Ron thinks, Crabbe and Goyle gave him and Neville some practice tussling with bigger people, not that Ron's been the shorter person in any equation since he was fourteen, and nowadays he's built like a proper keeper, so...) that it's not difficult to pin him down. The guy clearly doesn't pick fights with people his size or bigger, and he clearly never loses said fights with kids, because he has no idea how to get out of the grip Ron has on him.</p><p>"Calm the hell down, Davey," Ron says, sharply. </p><p>"Who the fuck are you?" Davey snarls, "And my name is <em>Dave," </em>He adds, angry.</p><p>"'Course it is, Davey," Harry says. "Hey, Ron."</p><p>"Was on my way to work," Ron says. "You do this often?"</p><p>"Every few days or so," Harry says. "Can't help myself, it's so fun. How's his face?"</p><p>"Fine," Ron says. "Nose is broken, but if he sets it right-"</p><p>"Gotcha," Harry crouches down. "Now, Davey," He says, and pats the guy's head. "You be a good boy and run along home to mummy and confess all your sins to the priest next door, would you? That's it. Don't go after the kids around here again, you got me?" He taps Dave on the forehead with the pocket-knife that had, presumably, been stored in his back pocket. "You can let him go, now," Harry tells Ron, off-handedly. </p><p>"Right," Ron says, and stands. Davey makes a break for it, and they watch him run down the street, Ron feeling utterly bemused, that damned smirk playing at the corner of Harry's mouth, his eyes containing the same dangerous gleam they did the other day.</p><p>"What in... God's sake is your life?" Ron says, remembering not to use 'Merlin' a little too late. Harry turns his head away from Dave's retreating back, and considers Ron, for a moment, before shrugging and pocketing his knife. He looks like he got punched in the face, and Ron can see the signs of a blossoming black eye. Harry doesn't give him an answer, just - looks at him, eyes assessing, intently focused, vividly green. Ron feels his ears start to burn, and thanks Merlin and Morgana that his hair's long enough to hide it. </p><p>"Where are your glasses?" Ron asks. Harry sighs, and takes them out of the pocket of his hoodie. "Got any sellotape?" Harry asks, wryly. One of the stems got broken off, the one on the left, and the sellotape holding the nose-bridge together looks old, peeling, and barely hanging on. </p><p>"Honestly mate, you should probably get new ones," Ron says.</p><p>"That's a lot of money," Harry says, shoving the glasses back into his pocket. </p><p>Ron remembers the car his - likely, probable - family drive, the clothes they wear, and wonders at how Harry can be so very much like himself in this aspect when the people he lives with certainly are <em>not. </em></p><p>Ron doesn't like the answers that his brain offers. </p><p>"The lenses okay?" Ron asks. Harry takes them back out, sighs again, and squints through them. "As okay as ever," He shrugs, and shoves them back in the pocket. The green of his eyes is barely a sliver, now, with the way the guy's squinting. Ron wonders how bad his eyesight actually is. </p><p>"Then you could just get a new frame," Ron offers. Harry considers this, then shrugs. "Pay check is <em>my </em>pay check," He considers. "Eh. What the Dursleys don't notice can't hurt me. You know anywhere?" Harry asks, tilting his head. </p><p>Ron scratches his chin. "Charity shop should have <em>something," </em>He says. Ron almost worked there, but the vacancy was already filled by the time he worked up the courage to apply. He's almost glad it had, now, in a way. This is... certainly more interesting than selling jumpers to old people. </p><p>The two walk side-by-side down the narrow pavement in the direction of the shops. They're already late, but Jack isn't in today, and... well, Harry won't be able to serve people he can't see, anyway. The charity shop is a few fronts down, and it has, as hoped, a bin of old unwanted glasses frames shoved in the back corner. </p><p>"Fun," Harry mutters to himself, and then starts digging. He finds a near-identical pair of old, round, black wire-frames, though these have nose-pads and aren't broken on the bridge, they are missing the left stem. </p><p>"Hm." Harry shrugs. "Close enough." He takes it to the counter.</p><p>The lady looks at him, then at the frames, then back up. Harry grimaces. "Broke my frames," He says, takes out the glasses to show her, shrugging in vague awkwardness. "Oh, love, that's unfortunate," She commiserates, "Do you have the right tools to replace-?"</p><p>"Sellotape not good enough?" Harry says, with dry humour, tilting his head, a polite smile on his face.</p><p>"Oh!" She shakes her head, tutting. "Why, I..." She shakes her head again. "Wait here a moment, would you boys?" The lady wanders off, into the back room. They wait, and she returns a good few minutes later, a little box in her hands. "Here you go," She places it on the table. "Tools. Much safer than <em>sellotape," </em>She shakes her head, muttering <em>"Teenagers these days..." </em>to herself as she rings up the total. It's a modest sum, and Harry pays, taking the tools and the frames off the counter then shoving them into his hoodie's pocket. They leave. Harry, squinting, has appeared thus far to be doing alright without his glasses, though his steps have been slow and carefully taken. He hesitates a bit when reaching for the door, and fumbles slightly with the handle, but Ron doesn't think he'd take an offer of help very well. </p><p>"You, uh," Ron starts, "I got it," Harry dismisses. Ron hovers, for a minute, uncertain, but Harry snaps "<em>I got it," </em>again, so Ron chooses to clean the tables instead of provoke his ire. He might loiter at the tables close to where Harry's working on his glasses, but that's neither here nor there. </p><p>Harry makes a noise of frustration. Ron wipes down the table for the fourth time. </p><p>"Fine," Harry grouses, sounding unnervingly like Hermione when she has to admit defeat. "If you're going to hover like that, might as well have a go."</p><p>Ron's not much better at it, but at least he can see what he's doing, and these screws are <em>tiny </em>and fiddly and awful, and Ron's pretty sure you're not supposed to do this yourself, but oh well. He fits on the stem, or arm, or whatever it's called, and pushes in the lenses which fit snugly into the frames, just about. </p><p>"Might glue them in later," Harry mutters, eyes suspiciously taking in the glasses before he shoves them on his face, blinks to clear his vision, and then focuses, unerringly, directly onto Ron. </p><p>"... Thanks," Harry offers, not perfunctory, but as if he is used to being forced to say it, and this is the first time he's found he means it; the gratitude. The sentiment behind the word. </p><p>"Welcome," Ron responds, equally as awkward. "What... uh, what was..."</p><p>Harry sighs. "Piers Polkiss," He says, lips twisting with distaste. "Total prat. And a violent bully, to boot, and he's been like that for - long as I can remember. Never grew up." Harry presses his lips together, then tilts his head. "And I never learnt to leave well enough alone." His hands tighten into fists, on the table. "Plus - it was a fucking <em>kid, </em>I mean - you'd think they'd pick on someone a bit older, if only for their cred's sake."</p><p>"You have a <em>knife," </em>Ron feels the need to point out. Not that Ron doesn't understand having a weapon on your person at all times. Wizards do that the same as breathing, because not having a wand with you is like forgetting your lungs at home. Ron gets it, but legally speaking, in the muggle world, it's not exactly above the line. </p><p>"So did they," Harry retorts, scowl forming like a dark cloud over his features. "And they pulled it on a <em>kid, come on-"</em></p><p>"I didn't say-" Ron grunts, annoyed. "Most people I know carry something," He allows, slowly, thinking around the statute, "And, god, stepping in to save some midget is the right thing to do, I'd do it," Ron continues, "I'm just figuring... you've done that a lot?"</p><p>"Yeah," Harry sighs. He relaxes, slightly, at Ron's lack of negative judgement. "And I'm the criminal," He laughs. "Because I smoke and sit on park benches and did graffiti with some twats out of boredom, a few times in high school. See, 'cause <em>I </em>went to Stonewall, I'm the bad guy."</p><p>Ron's ignorance of what 'Stonewall' is must show on his face, because Harry shrugs and extrapolates. "You're not from 'round here, I know," Harry says. "Your accent - farmer's country, clear as day," Harry shrugs again. "Stonewall's the state school near where I grew up. It's, uh, <em>rough, </em>to say the least. Underfunded, half the kids can't speak the same language and a third don't have any language in common at all, anyone who's rich or physically big that goes there ends up shoving people's heads into toilets, et cetera." Harry grimaces. "Kids weren't bad people," He says. "I didn't exactly make a lot of <em>friends - </em>my reputation preceded me," He interjects his own sentence, wryly, then continues, "But most of 'em were good people, just... under privileged, I guess. If you kept your head down, you could do alright. Me, mind you - couldn't have if I tried, so I just... didn't."</p><p>"Your reputation?" Ron asks.</p><p>"Dursleys," Harry says, "People I live with? You've seen them, in their car," Ron nods, and Harry nods back, "Right, they're -" He grimaces. "My mum's family." There's a sadness in his eyes, Ron thinks. Something old, and quiet, and familiar. "After she and dad died - drunken car accident - I uh, they took me in. An' I've been on their dole ever since. Soon as I could get any income they shoved me at it." Harry scowls. "And all the while they get my dad's money."</p><p>"Merlin," Ron says, before he can stop himself, but Harry doesn't seem to notice, scowling as he is at a stain on the table. "Why?"</p><p>"Monthly stipend to keep me in... something," Harry says. "An' as much as I hate them, I can't say they're stupid. They keep most of it for themselves, and I can't say shit, and they're decent enough with money that it's gotten them a good lot in life, on top of Uncle Vernon's Grunnings' paycheck."</p><p>"Grunnings?" Ron asks.</p><p>"Drills," Harry says, dryly. "Gonna be in business as long as industry and D.I.Y and building and all that shit exists."</p><p>"Right," Ron says. </p><p>"We got t'open up," Harry says, running a hand through his hair. He's wearing a t-shirt today, washed-out blue with a black crew-neck, over which is a buttoned-up flannel, same black trousers as always, however his shoes this time are a battered pair of trainers, much worse off than his gardener's boots or the other pair he wears more often. </p><p>He always looks kind of uncomfortable, Ron has noticed, when he's dressed more 'properly', though Ron thinks - hearing about the Dursleys, and from having seen them, that it's either that or don't leave the house, at least now he's got a job. He probably managed to escape the house without notice, today. </p><p>"Yeah," Ron says. He returns to actually cleaning the store, while Harry goes to retrieve his apron.</p>
<hr/><p>Ron whistles at the look of Harry's eye, the next day. "That's a shiner," He says.</p><p>Harry rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah," He says, retrieving his apron. "Look, uh. The thanks wasn't just for the glasses, yesterday," Harry grimaces, an awkward tick, Ron has come to understand, which denotes when Harry is uncertain of how to proceed. "But uh, also for - intervening," Harry shrugs one shoulder as he ties the apron. "Davey's a real fucking pain to deal with, so... thanks. Could'o' gone pear-shaped, if he'd caught up with the kid."</p><p>"No problem," Ron says, simply. Harry's lips quirk up, more genuine than that gesture used to be. He doesn't smile much, or really at all - not out of happiness, at least, and Ron wonders what it would look like. Harry's... entirely too serious, for someone around Ron's age. Angry and closed-off then quick-flash and performatively polite, sometimes, blank-faced and sarcastic at others. Ron hopes yesterday's display maybe, sort-of... let him meander past a few of the barriers he's got built up. </p><p>Ron hasn't forgotten what they called Harry. 'Freak'. All casual, and instinctive, like Ron calling Molly <em>mum </em>and Charles <em>Charlie </em>and Ginevra <em>Ginny, </em>but clearly meant in the same ways Malfoy Junior calls Ron <em>Weasel. </em>Insulting. Derogatory. </p><p>Now that Ron knows about it, Harry seems much less inclined to pretend he doesn't have a pocket knife in his pocket, and Ron spies him absently twirling it in his fingers, which makes Ron's skin <em>itch </em>because unlike a wand, a knife has two sharp edges - at least the type Harry carries does - and it's <em>dangerous, </em>but Harry seems wholly unconcerned about the idea he might just chop off his own thumb by accident. He also seems to know what he's doing, so Ron leaves well enough alone; it's fidgeting like any other, Ron supposes, dubiously, and Harry's clearly had that knife for <em>years </em>judging by the state of it. </p><p>"Where'd you get that?" Ron asks. Harry blinks at him, then shrugs, eyes skating away from his face, which they'd snapped to upon the instant Ron drew breath to start speaking. Harry is... a little jumpy, Ron has noted. And he's never as distracted as you think. </p><p>"My godfather," He says, simply, tone something close to what sounds like <em>fond, </em>which is, Ron realises, something he has not heard yet from Harry. "He taught me how to pick locks with it," Harry says, grinning sharply, but the sharpness, Ron thinks, is as much a front as the polite smiles he aims at customers are. </p><p>!Useful," Ron says, because it is. So long as Harry's not playing the role of petty thief or shoplifter, knowing how to pick a lock is a useful skill.</p><p>"Yeah," Harry says, expression softening. "Yeah, Si- Simon knows his shit," He says, then shakes his head. "Customer," He gestures, with his head, and the knife is gone from his hand between one glance up at the door and Ron looking back at Harry. </p><p>Harry raises his eyebrows at Ron, who sighs, and takes the place at the counter. </p><p>"Oh," Ron says, seeing who it is. "Ernie."</p><p>"Ah! Ron Weasley," Ernie grins, wide, striding forwards to shake Ron's hand. "I didn't expect to see you here! What brings you to London?"</p><p>"The sights," Ron says, amused. "And the job opportunities."</p><p>Ernie laughs. "Much the same!" He professes. Ernie takes Muggle Studies, too, potentially thanks to the scare of the chamber and the reminder of some <em>really bad </em><em>ideas </em>wizards have had, back in their second year. "I work at this lovely little library, a few streets down. I thought I'd have a bit of a gander around, you know, familiarize myself with the area." He chuckles. "My! We have jobs now," He shakes his head. "all when it feels like just yesterday we were - ah - cheering on 'foosball' matches-"</p><p>"Football, Ernie," Ron corrects him, and Ernie nods, "Yes, 'football'," He winks, exaggerated, "Of course!" Ernie turns his attention to Harry, who's vaguely polite expression twitches under the full force of Ernie Macmillan's pompous, but genuine, friendly attitude. "And - might I introduce myself, ah, Harry? I'm Ernie Macmillan, a school chum of your co-worker, here," He holds out a hand, which Harry shakes, bemused. "School chum," Harry says, dryly. "Right."</p><p>Ron scratches his chin. "Well, what's your order then, eh mate?"</p><p>"Hmm? Oh! Delightful!" Ernie takes in the menu. "What-"</p><p>"<em>Let's... </em>get you a mocha," Ron decides, quickly, before Ernie can look a little too out-of-the-loop. "Harry?" </p><p>"Yeah," Harry says. "On it." </p><p>"How <em>has </em>your summer been, then, Ron?" Ernie asks. "Not too, ah, exciting, I hope?"</p><p>After the break-out from Azkaban last year... yeah, Ernie's worry isn't exactly unfounded. Fucking <em>Lestrange. </em></p><p>"Pretty dull, really," Ron says. "Yours?"</p><p>"Thankfully, nothing at all has happened," Ernie says, "I have simply seen the sights of our fair countries, and experienced life within the-"</p><p>"-price range of a normal human?" Ron interrupts, quickly. Ernie nods, sagely. "I have learnt quite a lot," He barrels on, "Like public transport! Ingenious."</p><p>"Right," Ron grins. Harry stifles a laugh. "Here you go, Ernie," He says, amused, handing over the mocha. "Hope you like it."</p><p>"I have a feeling I shall, Harry," Ernie nods at him. "How much money does it cost?"</p><p>"Says it right there," Harry says. "Three quid."</p><p>Ernie's smile flickers. "Yes, of course," He says, and takes out - thank Merlin - a muggle wallet from his pocket. He carefully takes out three pound coins, and places them quite proudly on the counter. "There you go," He says, cheerfully. "I'll be off, then! Are you coming to the match on Sunday, Ron?"</p><p>Quidditch - and Yeah. "Wouldn't miss it," Ron says. </p><p>"You're a football fan, then?" Harry asks, once the door shuts behind Ernie, echoed by the tinkling of the bell above it. "Yeah," Ron says, thinking <em>thank god for Dean </em>as he does so. "You?"</p><p>"'Bout as much as anyone," Harry says. He leans on the counter. "So," He says, "You go to school with him?"</p><p>"Yep," Ron nods. "He's a good sort, really."</p><p>Harry shakes his head, mystified. "I'm beat," He says. "Soon as I think I figure something out about you, I find out you went to some school with a bunch of posh twats, and then all that shit's jossed, and I'm back at square one."</p><p>Ron scratches his chin, feeling his ears burn awkwardly as he diverts his gaze away from Harry's piercing, assessing eyes. "Right, well," Ron clears his throat. "Well," He repeats, "I, uh, go to a boarding school," He says, slowly, once again having to think around the statute. "In Scotland."</p><p>Something flickers behind Harry's eyes. "Right," He says. </p><p>"My whole family went," Ron says, "It's, uh... a thing."</p><p>"Yeah," Harry says. He sounds, suddenly, surprisingly bitter. He's playing with the knife again. "Right." He pushes off of the counter. "We're low on milk in the machines," He grumbles, and stalks into the back rooms.</p><p>Ron winces, though he's not entirely sure what so suddenly soured Harry's mood.</p>
<hr/><p>Harry's sullen for a few days. Ron realises he's the brooding type, and then slaps himself mentally around the back of the head. If it took him this long to realise <em>Harry's </em>the brooding type, it's a wonder Ron can figure out how to get out of bed in the morning. </p><p>"Look," Ron pipes up, having had enough of it at this point, "If it's something I said-"</p><p>Harry lets out an explosive breath, then glares at Ron, then sighs and looks away. "It's not," He lets out, words struggling past grit teeth. "It's -" Harry's expression goes through a multitude of versions before settling on something profoundly reluctant. "My, uh, my Godfather went to a boarding school," Harry says. "In Scotland. He doesn't really talk about it much."</p><p>Ah, <em>shit. </em>Wouldn't it just be Ron's luck, to -</p><p>
  <em>Si - Simon</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My godfather went to a boarding school in Scotland</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Harry -</em>
</p><p>Green eyes, like Avada Kedavra. Black, messy hair - a family trait. Ron feels like the biggest idiot in the <em>world. </em></p><p>Harry Potter. They made books about his parents. First fall of Voldemort. It's the backbone of Ron's fucking <em>existence. </em>Ginny still has the old paperbacks, when they first tried to make a few knuts off Harry's name and likeness, before Black and Dumbledore put a stop to it, and then there was this whole upheaval in the way laws around that sort of thing work. Exploitation, or some shit, Ron doesn't remember, but the <em>point </em>is that -</p><p>Harry Potter. The squib son of James and Lily Potter. The nephew of Sirius Black. </p><p>Ron is never going to hear the end of this from the twins, he realises, with great despair. In <em>his </em>defence, Harry Potter should be <em>dead. </em></p><p>Harry looks at Ron, eyes bright with some desperate kind of emotion. "I don't see him much," He admits. "Legal reasons. He doesn't... exist. Technically. In the eyes of the law. If I - I went with him - left the Dursleys - there'd be a manhunt. Kidnapping. I just... one more year." He takes a slow breath. "And then he's... allowed to tell me everything." Harry presses his lips together, and his gaze turns calculating.</p><p>Ron thinks Sirius Black probably doesn't care much for rules that don't let him tell his godson things, and more importantly, Ron thinks Sirius Black has <em>already </em>told Harry Potter as much as is physically <em>possible. </em></p><p>"It's called Hogwarts," Ron offers. Harry's head snaps up. "The school I go to," Ron says. "But you knew that already, didn't you?"</p><p>Harry laughs, awkwardly. Looks about to deny it, then takes in Ron's expression, and sighs, tense shoulders dropping into a posture more relaxed than before. He puts the knife back in his pocket, absently. "Yeah," He says. "Yeah, I did."</p><p>"Uh," Ron scratches his chin. "How much do you know?"</p><p>"Enough," Harry says.</p>
<hr/><p>After their shift ends on Friday, Harry drags Ron off towards "My usual haunt," with a roll of his vibrant eyes to designate 'haunt' as something akin to ironic, or at least an attempt at humour. </p><p>It's a small courtyard-type-park, ensconced in the lesser-travelled parts of an urban landscape. There's graffiti on the walls, and beer cans on the floor, and the bin's top is covered in the remains of cigarettes that were put out on it's metal surface.</p><p>It's empty, at the moment.</p><p>"You hang out here?" Ron asks.</p><p>"Lovely place, isn't it?" Harry says, wryly. "It's uh, out of the way. Hardly anyone ever comes here, so..."</p><p>"You're left alone?" Ron asks. </p><p>"And nobody looks at me weirdly when I talk to Hedwig," Harry says. </p><p>"Hedwig?" Ron asks. Harry grins at him, and Ron blinks, blindsided by the genuine happy affection in the expression. "Hedwig," Harry says, tone endlessly fond. He goes to the little bit of greenery in the centre of the courtyard. </p><p>"Hedwig," Harry says, and then "<em>Hedwig," </em>again, but Ron hears a strange sibilance to the word, an undercurrent of something like - hissing. </p><p><em>"Hiss," </em>Harry had said; and Piers Polkiss had <em>fled. </em></p><p>"You're a - parseltongue," Ron says, words stumbling out. "Yep," Harry says, and stands up straight, a black adder wrapped around his forearm. "This is Hedwig," He gestures, and the snake raises it's head, and <em>nods </em>at Ron, like it's - greeting him. <em>Greeting </em>him. "She says hi," Harry continues, when the snake hisses something in Ron's direction. "And," Harry adds, amused, "That if you act malicious she will eat your parents." Harry shakes his head, then adds, "Somehow," Which gets him an indignant hiss in return for his commentary. </p><p>"My parents?" Ron asks, eyes focused on the not-exactly-<em>small </em>snake. "Well, she's not going to eat any 'younglings', so we're safe," Harry says. "She's a weird snake. Kids are off-limits. Hence Hedwig." His lips twist, amused. "And, you know, the orphan thing. I dunno. Eleven year old me thought it fit."</p><p>Pleased hissing. "And so did Hedwig," Harry adds, as an afterthought. </p><p>"Right," Ron says. "Uh, well then. How did -?"</p><p>"Oh," Harry shrugs. "I uh, actually dunno," He laughs. "Uh, when Voldemort died, I guess, he left some... stuff with me. Like parseltounge." He shrugs. "At least, as far as Sirius can gather. Dumbledore's a bit... cagey about it. Loses the twinkle." He gestures at his eyes. Harry looks, now, vaguely annoyed, and the adder's hissing become aggresive-sounding. </p><p>"Don't call him that," Harry admonishes Hedwig, bringing her to eye-level. "He's a good man." The hissing grows darker. "Yeah," Harry says, eyes hard. "And don't you forget it. Or I'm goin' to leave you here tonight," He threatens, and Hedwig quietens, somehow clearly mulish.  </p><p>"Well now she's in a tit," Harry grumbles. "Go on, off," He places his arm on a branch of the sole tree, and Hedwig escapes into the branches. Harry turns back to Ron, rocks on his heels, and shoves his hands into his pockets. "So, uh, yeah." Harry says, and then scratches the side of his jaw, just under his earlobe. "That's... what I wanted to show you." He clears his throat, and looks away. "Never, uh," Harry waves a hand, then shoves it back into it's respective pocket, "Had to introduce her to someone, before," He clears his throat again, and looks back. "So... wasn't sure how you'd take it."</p><p>"I've seen weirder," Ron admits. "Three headed dogs, fresh-water merfolk, trolls, dragons..."</p><p>Harry scowls, but his eyes have that friendly sparkle in them that tells Ron he doesn't mean the expression seriously. "Remind me of what I don't have, why don't you," Harry grumbles, then shrugs. "So you're... a wizard, then? Like Sirius?" He continues, eyes turningintense, like he's about to half-literally hang onto every single word Ron says. </p><p>"Yeah," Ron says. "I'm not as cool as Sirius Black, though." </p><p>Harry grins at him. "Nah," He says. "Padfoot's never helped me in a fistfight. You're cool."</p><p>Ron's ears burn under his hair, an awkward, warm flush flooding his face. "Uh, thanks," Ron says. </p><p>"Well," Harry says, grin softening, vibrant green eyes sparkling with something, Ron thinks, that might be happiness, "What have you not yet done, here?" Harry asks. "In my world?"</p><p>"A few things," Ron admits. He scratches the back of his head. "Our, uh, curriculum, isn't really... up to date," He says. "My friends had to teach me that it's called a 'telephone'."</p><p>"Oh, <em>wow," </em>Harry stares at him. "Okay. Cinema?"</p><p>Ron shakes his head. "I think Dean mentioned that, once," He offers.</p><p>"Right," Harry says, decidedly, "Cinema."</p><p>And then Ron's being dragged away again. He finds he doesn't mind it; Harry's hand clasped determinedly around his forearm.</p>
<hr/><p>Star Wars was seriously cool, Ron thinks. Harry smiles when he says so, looking pleased. "Nice," Harry says. "I've heard talk of prequels in the works? We should... see those when the come out," Harry suggests.</p><p>"Sure," Ron says. "Why did they start with four, though?"</p><p>Harry shrugs. "Dunno," He says. Scratches his chin. "Was never... much for that sort of thing. I uh - first time I've seen it, too." He grimaces. "Dursleys don't like imagination."</p><p>Ron stares. Harry shrugs, again, uncomfortable.</p><p>"Uh," Ron says. "Well that's fucking bullshit." Harry grins. "Yeah," He says. It's late enough in the day, that particular time known as 'Golden Hour', and Harry looks different, though Ron can't pinpoint why, exactly. Maybe it's the way the sun streaks gold through his dark hair, the way Ron can see him, properly, without a headband or a ballcap to obscure his features. The small, genuine smile that takes over his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes just so. </p><p>Harry's good-looking. </p><p>It's not the first time Ron's registered that thought, no, of course not. But... it's the first time he's let it settle in his mind, a <em>conscious </em>thought; it's the first time he's allowed the notion to linger.</p><p>Harry Potter is handsome. <em>Ron </em>finds him to be attractive. It's a little awkward to think about, in the same way he used to think it was awkward to call Hermione Granger <em>pretty </em>inside the privacy of his own mind for a year or so, when she was fifteen, and he was fourteen, and he was supposedly <em>stupid </em>for being a confused, uncertain, unexperienced teenager. But he does, anyway; it's a little awkward to think about, but he thinks about the way Harry's slightly crooked smile is <em>disarming, </em>the way his eyes are <em>very green </em>and kind of mesmerising, and he wonders, for a moment, vaguely hopeful, if Harry ever thinks about thinks like this, about <em>him. </em></p><p>
  <em>About Ron. </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>"Alright," Ron says, "You're..."</p><p>"Henry Evans," Harry says, dutifully. "I'm a Hogwarts student."</p><p>"Great," Ron says, and holds up his wand for the knight bus. </p><p>Stan Shunpike ushers them on board. He takes Ron's sickles for two tickets, and chatters away at them during the journey. It doesn't last very long, thankfully for their cover, and they leave the bus as quickly as they can, Harry self-consciously shoving his ballcap lower down on his forehead. </p><p>"Blackpool," Harry says. "Why here, exactly?"</p><p>"I've never been," Ron says, rocking back on his heels. "Kind of want t' see what the fuss is all about."</p><p>Harry shrugs. "Alright," He says. </p><p>It's summer, so the place is packed with muggles from all over, enjoying the temporarily warm weather and hot sun. They squint against the glare as they make their way through the throng of people all along this pier, and Ron feels Harry's hand snake around his forearm, so they don't get separated by the jostling masses. </p><p>"Bit busy," Harry mutters. Ron shrugs. He's... never seen this many people at once. The wizarding world, he knows, is <em>under-</em>populated, but he'd never realised quite how wide the margin was until now. London is an experience unto itself, but so is this. Wizarding tourist spots are... few and far between, and <em>never </em>this busy. It's not possible. There's <em>maybe </em>forty-thousand wizards in all of Britain. Fifty, at a stretch. </p><p>The wars kind of... did a number on them. As did all the isolation. </p><p>"Ferris wheel?" Harry mutters. "Get a lay of the land?"</p><p>Yeah, why not. They head in that direction, slowly, taking in what's on route to it, before they join the queue. It takes surprisingly little time to dwindle down, and then they're being put in one of the compartments, or whatever they're called. </p><p>Harry looks out the window, down below, as they climb up. Ron does the same, watches as the people slowly become colourful dots on the landscape, as buildings shrink to the size of a toy quidditch pitch in his perspective. </p><p>"It's kind of pretty, in a weird way," Harry says. Ron glances at him. Harry looks his way, and then tilts his head, considering. </p><p>"What?" Ron says. The sun's glare is hitting his eyes, so he squints, slightly, through it, to see Harry. "Have I got something on my face?" Ron asks, reaching up to rub at the side of his nose, a reflex; Hermione used to look at him like that, sometimes, and each time she'd snap about something like <em>you've got dirt on your nose, you know, </em>or <em>there's a spot on your chin, you should really watch that, you don't want acne. </em>And he did not; Eloise Midgen could attest to the horrors of bad skin. </p><p>"No," Harry says, then sighs, and turns around properly on the bench. "Uh, I just have... a really bad idea," He says, and then grins. "But uh, I've never been one to shy away from bad ideas, so... don't punch me?" And before Ron could ask why he'd ever want to do that, Harry's leaning in, and then there's the soft press and drag of chapped lips against his own. </p><p>It's not really - Ron didn't exactly have any expectations, partly because he'd... well, he'd only ever kissed one person.</p><p>And Harry Potter is not Lavender Brown. </p><p>He feels a little guilty, a little hesitant, to say it's <em>better, </em>but Ron can't lie and say it isn't. The differences are not subtle. There's no taste of cherry lipgloss, sticky and sweet, just the raw, human feel of another's mouth, and it's different because Harry doesn't push nearly as much - crowds into his space, sure, but doesn't instantly shove his tongue into Ron's mouth. It's <em>careful, </em>explorative, curious - but, Ron can tell, just as inexperienced. And just as hopeful. </p><p>Ron closes his eyes. </p><p>What feels like hours - but is, in reality, likely only around a minute later - Harry pulls back.</p><p>"Well," He says, and smiles, crooked, pleased, the small genuine thing that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "You didn't punch me."</p><p>"No," Ron confirms. "And I'm not going to."</p><p>"Great," Harry says. He settles back onto the bench, bright green eyes trained on Ron, and the sparkling happiness seems more sure, more certain than it had been, before. "Brilliant."</p><p>Ron smiles at Harry. His ears burn, and there's the slightest dash of pink over Harry's face, a less obvious mirror to what Ron knows is displayed on his own. </p><p>"So, uh," Harry tilts his head. "Just out of curiosity - uh, have you... before?" He gestures, vaguely. Ron interprets this as <em>Have you kissed anyone?</em></p><p>"I had a girlfriend," He admits, and Harry nods, slowly. "Her name's Lavender Brown," Ron says, "And we broke up last year."</p><p>Harry nods, again. </p><p>"You?" Ron asks. </p><p>Harry clears his throat and looks away, "Well," He says, the pink reappearing on his cheeks. "Uh, I kissed a girl when I was fifteen. Sarah Ann Silverman." He presses his lips together, then sighs, and looks back at Ron. </p><p>"Okay?" Ron says. "Uh... how was it?" He asks.</p><p>Harry laughs, shakes his head and says, "Uh... <em>wet</em>." With an amused lilt to his voice. Ron laughs too. "Okay," He says. "Okay." </p><p>Harry smiles at him. Ron feels like it, so he leans in, and Harry meets him halfway. </p><p><em>A kiss at the top of a Ferris wheel, </em>Ron thinks. <em>That's probably a muggle cliché, isn't it?</em></p>
<hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm feeling Energised TM I just finished my mid-term reading, thinking, and writing assignment and I needed a Distraction, thank you tumblr user you know who you are (and also everyone else does because this was gifted to you uhh hope that's okay), you're awesome. Thank you. </p><p>Just for context Voldemort was defeated alongside Quirrel thanks to a combination of the philosopher's stone trap + Dumbledore time/universe-travelling back to 1987 after he died but that's neither here nor there and wasn't mentioned because it wasn't important to the story... also squib!Harry AU nice... he's still a Horcrux though which is why thinks are a little iffy in the WW... but that's for Later (and not for me to write, ha! maybe. Maybe I might write it.) </p><p>also Ernie, thanks for barging in you're so fun to write, why do I always forget you exist </p><p>idk if there's enough Ronarry in this harron coffee shop AU but I hope there is... im trying to learn how to get to the established relationship portion of something... i'm okay once it's started but the getting there part??? uhhhhh anyway</p><p>Also yes I can never do a normal coffee shop AU, just like Claysmond kept the Assassins with a Twist! this is HP with a Twist! yay fun twists are good right </p><p>Thoughts?</p></blockquote></div></div>
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